


Hypnoctober Day 18

by birdginia



Series: Hypnoctober 2018 [18]
Category: DRAMAtical Murder (Visual Novel)
Genre: Bondage, M/M, Mind Control, Orgasm Denial, Virus and Trip's Bad End, magical dmmd fuck music
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-08-09 17:24:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16454189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/birdginia/pseuds/birdginia
Summary: (prompt - orgasm denial)Aoba could easily let his mind drift into nothingness until his time bound is up. But either his captors have caught on to the ways he tries to avoid even a little of the suffering they inflict on him, or he’s just unlucky, because his attention is drawn completely to the pounding of music in his ears, sealed off from any background noise by obviously high-end headphones.





	Hypnoctober Day 18

**Author's Note:**

> i'd apologize for dmmd in 2018 but consider it a celebration of the new localization and also it's fucking hypnoctober i can't believe it took me this long to remember dmmd exists.
> 
> also moving prompts again, because i spent like four days trying to write venom for xeno day and then gave up, so sorry about that.

Time doesn’t exist in Aoba’s new home.

He’s lost track of how long he’s been trapped here. He’s given up trying to count days by sleep or meals, with both being offered to him at completely irregular intervals. He can’t be bothered to wonder how long he’s been sitting in any given position—if he counts the seconds, they always seem to stretch for forever, so he instead chooses to let himself disconnect from time completely.

So he has no idea how long he’s been in this room, alone, legs spread by ropes attaching his ankles to a bedframe, arms bound tight behind his back, the chain on his collar giving him barely enough slack to do anything but wait for someone to free him. 

And if that were all, Aoba could easily let his mind drift into nothingness until his time bound is up. But either his captors have caught on to the ways he tries to avoid even a little of the suffering they inflict on him, or he’s just unlucky, because his attention is drawn completely to the pounding of music in his ears, sealed off from any background noise by obviously high-end headphones.

There’s no clear melody or song structure to it, just a constant steady beat and a thrumming bass that seems to permeate his entire body, scrambling his brain and boiling his blood in a way Aoba’s never felt before. 

Every downbeat seems to sync with his heart and follow his bloodstream straight to his cock, leaving him harder and needier with every pulse. It feels good but doesn’t, it’s too much but not enough, and the restraints keeping him from any chance of contact combined with the emptiness of the room make him spiral into fear, fear of complete isolation as the sensation only worsens, fear of the isolation being broken.

Aoba closes his eyes and finds the heightened sense of the music makes the effects even more pronounced, every beat like an impact against his skull and every heartbeat making his skin burn and his cock twitch. But when he opens his eyes, the dimly lit room just reminds him how alone he is, how long he might be stuck here without anyone to make things better—or worse, probably worse, but maybe any new sensation would stop him from going completely crazy. It’s nearly as bad as the box.

So when someone finally does open the door—Aoba has to blink through tears a few times to realize, it’s Virus—he breathes out a sigh of relief, even if the look in those eyes is no less cruel than it always is.

Aoba sees his mouth move, but can’t hear anything over the music, can only barely make out the shape of his own name and the tilt of Virus’ head that implies a question. Aoba doesn’t care, just wants the desperate ache in his body to be gone. “ _Please_ ,” he says, barely able to hear even his own voice, “please, please, make it stop, take them off, something, _please_ —“

Virus just stands there, watching, his mouth curling slightly when Aoba speaks. Aoba starts to pull at his bonds, ignoring the pain in his ankles and the bruises that must be forming on his throat, shivering, reaching for Virus with everything he has.

Virus takes a few steps forward, but doesn’t touch, instead pulling out his phone. He taps at something, and suddenly the track in Aoba’s ears changes to something faster, louder, and he feels his heartbeat pick up in time with it, the pulse through his whole body pounding through him like a hammer to every bone.

He wants to touch, he wants to run, he wants to come, he wants to hide, he doesn’t know what words are coming out of his mouth or what kind of expression is on his face but something about it must make Virus finally put his phone away and reach out a hand to gently rest on Aoba’s thigh. 

It sears his skin like a brand, and Aoba bucks forward in a way that strains his shoulders, leaning into the touch but also wanting to jerk away. Virus moves his hand, slowly, sliding up towards where Aoba needs it but stopping just short, and Aoba wriggles desperately, trying to inch towards Virus the best he can.

Virus takes his hand away, and Aoba sobs, hiccuping and gasping out of sync with the beat still pounding in his ears—and even just that feels wrong, somehow. When Virus moves his hand to stroke Aoba’s cheek instead, every point of contact burns relief into his aching body, and Aoba tries not to move this time, thinking that maybe, this will convince Virus to stay, to keep touching him.

But the hand falls away again, and then Virus turns around, checks his phone, and heads towards the door.

Aoba isn’t sure if he screams, or if any noise comes out at all. He just feels ragged breaths come out of his throat and something shaped like words cross his lips as he watches Virus shut the door behind him. He shakes and strains at his bonds until it hurts too much to continue, and he curls in on himself the few inches that he can.

The track changes again, not long after the door is shut, and it feels like the same one, but twice as fast, and Aoba’s heart can’t take it. His blood is pumping too fast, his cock is throbbing with pain and desperation in equal measure, and the room is starting to spin. 

If he’s lucky, maybe he’ll pass out, wake up in another room, in a different position, anything, as long as the music has stopped.

He’s not going to count on it.

**Author's Note:**

> my twitter is over at [@Slotheyyyyy](https://twitter.com/Slotheyyyyy). check out my very important thoughts and opinions on fucking, and @ me with any of yours!


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